


when the light gets into your heart, baby

by mazily



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claude wants to fight his own fights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the light gets into your heart, baby

**Author's Note:**

> For Pass Shoot Porn. Prompt was "did I stutter?", which I then warped into a Breakfast Club reference. Title from _Don't You (Forget About Me)_ because once you're in a Breakfast Club place you might as well.

Thumbnail torn, finger pressed against the green-grey bruise on his inner thigh. Torn knuckles, bloody nose. The medical staff all busy on concussion duty-- _can you remember?_ , _turn your head_ , _are you nauseated?_ Danny hisses, presses his finger harder against the bruise. Licks his lips. Tastes blood.

"Hey." Claude's head in the doorway, tilted.

"Hey," Danny says. Lifts his hand--crooked pinkie, cracked skin--and waves.

"You'd tell the boys not to poke at their bruises like that," Claude says.

Danny flips him off. Claude smiles. Danny clenches his fist, curses under his breath; if Claude comes closer, he won't be able to stop himself from reaching out and ruffling his hair. Pulling at it, too short curls between his fingers, yank--

"Okay, Briere," and Danny blinks. The doc's standing next to him, and Claude's gone, probably back in the room, definitely sulking. Danny places his hands on the bench next to his thighs.

"I'm fine," he says. He licks his front teeth, tastes metal and salt. "Just a few cuts and bruises."

"Uh huh," Tom says. 

"Honest." Cross his heart and hope to die, stick a needle in his. "Fuck," Danny says, "Warn a guy before you stab him."

"You were saying?" Tom says. Danny closes his eyes. 

*

The shots are green purple clear, going going gone. Hold your nose and swallow--or, rather, Danny would if his nose was in one piece. Instead he nurses a green Gatorade. A room temperature beer. 

Claude keeps looking over. Pink skin, black eye, and Danny's mouth is too dry to tell Claude he's okay. They're okay. Hartsy rolls his eyes. Pushes Claude toward Danny, climbs over him and pulls his chair behind him. 

"Tell him," Hartsy says. "Tell him you're fine, so he can stop annoying me with his pouting."

Danny clears his throat. Unscrews the top of his Gatorade. "I'm _fine_ ," he says. Fingers picking at the label, small rolls of wet paper snowing on the table. Claude frowns. Danny doesn't touch his fingers to the back of Claude's hand. 

"You sure you're," Claude says. He wrinkles his nose. 

"Do I stutter?" Danny says. 

"Fuck you, princess," Claude says. "I'm going to have that song stuck in my head forever now."

Hartsy pounds back another shot. "I hate both of you so much," he says.

Claude smiles. Leans over and licks Hartsy's check. "Ugh, beard," he says, and, "You know you love me, man. I? Am the greatest." Hartsy shoves him, but he's laughing. Danny smiles. His lip cracks open again.

Claude reaches out, presses his finger against Danny's lip. Hartsy stands. Drops a shot glass on the floor. Says, "Shit, fuck" just a little too loudly. Claude's hand jumps. Danny swallows; licks his lip to feel it sting.

Couts looks up from the breasts of the shot girl; she calls over a busboy. The busboy carries a broom, dustpan, a spray bottle of something blue. Danny's right leg keeps twitching. Claude stares at the table like there's a game plan hidden in the grain of the wood.

"Right," Danny says. He pushes himself to his feet. 

"Finally," Hartsy says. 

"I think I'm going to," Danny says. His mouth still feels like cotton. He's a little wobbly on his feet. He waves toward the door. He can't remember if he had a jacket with him. "I'm going to head out," he says. 

Hartsy elbows Claude. The Schenns laugh--Luke starts coughing to try to cover it up, but they're both close to hysterical. Danny pushes his hair back from his forehead. Reminds himself that these are his teammates. Tries not to think about the offseason, about buyouts and trade rumors and age.

Sweat itches between his shoulder blades. 

Claude stands, hoodie clutched in his hands. "Yeah, me too," he says. "I'm going to, to, too."

Hartsy waves, fingers closing against his palm. Danny follows Claude, lets him weave his way through the crowd. Keeps close enough that he won't have to push anyone out of his path. The air outside is humid, early summer cool. Danny leans against the wall just to the left of the main doors. Claude stands next to him. Their bodies touching all the way down Danny's side.

Claude shakes his head. He fishes his car keys out of his pocket--shimmying to get them; Danny turns, and the street in front of him tilts and flickers. "I don't think I should drive," Claude says. 

The team hotel's only a block away. The all have their rooms one more night; the season came crashing down around them with a 5-on-3 and a scrum, but they still have to sleepwalk through clearout day. 

"No," Danny says. "Me too." He pushes himself away from the wall. Starts walking. 

*

Claude stands too close, chest to Danny's back, as Danny struggles with the key card to his room. "Fuck," Danny says. He tries again--red light, flashing, fingers shaking. "Fuck." Green light. He pushes the door open; the lights flicker on as they step inside.

Claude toes off his shoes. Presses a hand against the small of Danny's back, untucking and sliding up under his dress shirt. Danny stumbles out of his shoes. Half-tripping, hand reaching out to catch the wall, a spike of pain shooting up his arm--he moves his arm away from the wall, lets Claude catch him as he loses his balance.

"Fucking Crosby," Claude says. Almost growling. Danny lets himself be pushed against the back of the door, lets Claude trace the lines of his face, ears, nose. 

"I'm fine," Danny says. Repeats, over and over, as Claude's fingers ghost across his skin. 

"You're a fucking idiot," Claude says. He scrapes his teeth against Danny's chin, bites and sucks another bruise in his skin; hidden in plain sight, possessive but secret. "You let his bullshit get to you, you fucking asshole."

Danny hisses. Puts his hands on Claude's shoulders, pressing down. "Blow me," he says. Claude presses a quick kiss to the corner of Danny's mouth, tongue out to lick at his scar. 

"Make me," he says. Danny grins--it's ridiculous that he finds that hot--but then Claude stops struggling. Lets Danny push him to his knees; he shakes, then goes still. Hands on Danny's thighs. He strokes his thumbs against the fabric, tilts his head back and lifts his chin. A dare.

Danny unbuttons and unzips his trousers, pushes them down with his boxers. Claude digs a fingernail into a faded bruise on Danny's thigh. "Condom in my wallet," Danny says. "If you can put it on with your mouth I'll let you fuck me tonight."

Claude kisses Danny's stomach. Wraps a hand around Danny's dick. "Maybe I'll just jerk you off," he says. He lifts his hand and licks the palm. "You can come on me." Danny's hard, and he wants to ruin Claude's ugly pink shirt. Wants to mark Claude, wants everyone to--

Claude flicks a finger against Danny's inner thigh. 

"Yeah," Danny says. "That's, yeah, okay."

Claude's calluses mostly match Danny's own, but he does something with his wrist that Danny can never replicate. It makes sense; they shoot differently on the ice too. Skate differently. Hit differently. Danny loves to watch Claude play hockey. Never wants to stop.

"I can't believe I have to tell you to pay attention," Claude says. He slaps Danny's thigh with one hand, thumbs the slit of Danny's dick with the other. Danny looks down. His dick jumps. Danny's chest feel heavy; he focuses on breathing.

Claude's hair is still too short. Danny runs his fingers from the back of Claude's head to the front, twists a strand of hair around his finger. Pulls. Claude lets Danny pull him forward. Sucks another bruise into Danny's hip. 

He finally finds a rhythm, or maybe it's Danny that figures it out. Danny keeps his injured hand against his side--concentrating on keeping it still. He scratches lines against Claude's scalp with the other. 

Claude reaches up and tangles his fingers with Danny's. Stilling them. "That itches," he says. He pulls Danny's hand to his mouth, and Danny pushes his fingers past Claude's lips. Claude laughs. Danny can feel it in his toes. 

Claude sucks on Danny's fingers, talking around them. A mumbled mix of French and English, practically incomprehensible. Danny tries to pay attention. Tries to make out what Claude is saying. His middle finger pops out of Claude's mouth, and he traces his fingernail against the grain of Claude's beard. Claude shivers. The hand around Danny's dick tightens, speeds up, and Claude grins. _Dare you,_ he mouths. Teeth against Danny's fingers.

Claude's shirt is pink. Plaid. Danny hates it. He closes his eyes.

"Next season," Claude says. He sucks on Danny's fingers; Danny pulls them from Claude's mouth, touches Claude's throat. Claude's hand doesn't stop moving. Danny's hips jerk, and his bad hand bangs against the wall. He hisses. Claude presses his free arm against Danny's stomach, holding him still. Holding him in place. Danny can't concentrate. "I fight my own fights," Claude says. Deep breathes between words. "Next season you will stand there and watch me and I will knock fucking Crosby-"

Danny comes. Claude punching Sidney Crosby behind his eyelids, Claude's ugliest shirt under Danny's grasping hand.


End file.
